Independent inspectors arrived from another facility.
Digital-forensics contractor began imaging computers under consent and legal authority.
Insurer placed temporary restriction on fleet.
Manufacturer liaison joined remotely.
Everything became paperwork.
Real crises often do.
At 1:15 a.m., Camille finally changed clothes.
Her assistant brought black trousers, white shirt, flats, and long coat from hotel.
She changed inside small executive restroom.
The silver gown went into garment bag.
The giant black hat rested on a chair.
Without it, she looked more tired.
Daniel handed her coffee.
“Sorry about tonight.”
“For what?”
“You were at gala.”
“I hated gala.”
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“I should’ve called sooner.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Why didn’t?”
“I wasn’t certain.”
“Good.”
He looked surprised.
“You want certainty before accusation.”
“I want enough evidence to preserve.”
He nodded.
Then:
“I think it’s worse.”
“How?”
Daniel opened tablet.
Independent team had checked all six.
Every aircraft showed documentation irregularities.
Four had swapped identification plates.
Two did not.
But those two showed other inconsistencies.
Component serial mismatches.
Engine-cycle discrepancies.
Maintenance dates not aligning with actual part installation.
One aircraft had been advertised to members as having a newly refurbished cabin and recent major inspection.
The inspection had occurred.
But on a different airframe.
Camille stared.
“How long?”
“Likely eighteen months.”
“How did our audit miss?”
Daniel looked embarrassed.
“Records were internally coherent.”
“That’s the point.”
“If you swap identity early enough and maintain the fiction consistently, documents can look clean until physical identifiers are compared.”
Camille hated the elegance.
“Who knew?”
“Still working.”
“Any evidence of compromised flight safety?”
“Not yet.”
“Important.”
“Yes.”
“No one says unsafe until we know.”
“Agreed.”
“Any indication actual required maintenance missed?”
“Maybe one interval on aircraft three.”
“Maybe?”
“Need manufacturer data.”
“Then say maybe.”
Camille walked toward window overlooking dark ramp.
All six jets sat grounded.
White.
Silent.
Worth hundreds of millions combined.
Preston and Grant had left with attorneys.
Arthur remained.
Everett had been sent home pending HR review after giving statement.
His humiliation of Camille now felt almost trivial.
Almost.
She thought of the comment.
People dressed for galas don’t inspect airplanes.
A dumb sentence.
But it revealed more than arrogance.
It revealed how quickly people assign expertise based on appearance.
Camille had benefited from the inverse many times.
When she entered wearing navy suit and executives knew she was CEO, people treated every observation as brilliant.
That distortion was dangerous too.
Sometimes she was wrong.
Power made people slower to say so.
Now she wondered what else Atlas Crown had hidden because employees assumed Preston and Grant knew best.
At 2:03 a.m., Aaron Delaney called.
“We found the buyer.”
“Who?”
“Northlake Capital consortium.”
Camille knew them.